Very

“Hard to say” your body guest shrugs, “when I have to seek out a host rather than being handed off, I have a disconnect from time, so the question is not so simple as combining ‘when was I born?’ and ‘what's the current year?’” He shakes your head, “I'm old enough. I'm strong enough. Measuring either in a useful way is very difficult.”

“Especially when applying your power takes time,” you would nod, but you're not running your body right now.

“Yes… anyway, we're here.” The current driver announces as he pulls into a private campground.

There's an actual attendant at the gate, and the Ring stops to check in, “Reservation for Alice Abrams.”

The man swallows, looking at you and staring, “Site twenty seven, full hook up; straight ahead, take a left at the showers, it'll be on the right.” He pauses, blinking, and adds “Happy trails!” The attendant hands a flyer to you, which your body accepts, and you're on your way.

The campground itself is not as dense as most private campgrounds; the spots are spread out a bit, with enough trees between to give a sense of isolation between. The ring finds the site, backs the RV in, runs the levers to level the rig, gets out, connects all the hookups, and heads back in… where he starts doing that golden shrinking text thing again, this time in the ceiling above the master bed. It's just as hypnotic as the last time, and you find yourself drifting off.

You have some dreams about flying and shopping, and wake up dressed in a light blue gown you've never seen before. You're in the RV, a breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon, French toast, and orange juice in front of you. The old man in a tweed jacket that the ring uses as an avatar sits across the table. Or looks like it, anyway: It's all in your head.

“Good morning Alice, it's eight AM and you're showered, brushed, and dressed. We should probably pick up your things from the dorm, but the RV is stocked for the next week,” the ring greets you cheerfully.

The prior night catches up with you, “I was walking around naked?”

“Yes… cultural differences, it didn't occur to me you'd find that important.” He pauses, “Good news, the fact that you caught that means you're largely recovered.”

“Ugh. At least I'm dressed now…” you consider as you eat, “So you hooked things in, unhooked, and went shopping?”

“No, I left the RV here after making a Beacon. Flew to the store, bought some things, and rode back,” the Ring answers, shrugging.

“I can fly?” You ask, pausing your fork before your mouth, considering.

“No, I can fly,” the man in tweed chuckles, “you need to stick with the basics until you master them. After that, we can add powers. Flying is fun, can keep you out of reach of some bad guys, and is good for rescues in many scenarios… but a flying hero who can't tank a couple shots is just skeet in this day and age, and has been since the invention of the sling. I'll cheerfully train you on it… after you're reliably bulletproof, all right?”

You take the paused bite, chew, and swallow, “Okay, but I'll hold you to that.”

“Wouldn't have it any other way…” the ghost chuckles.

After another bite, "Why would a slingshot matter?”

“Not a slingshot, a sling… here…” he reaches behind himself and pulls out a long woven cord with a knitted cup in the middle, a decent sized rock inside the cup, “you lash one end to your wrist, hold the other, swing it around a bunch of times, and let fly.” The old man demonstrates… which is perfectly safe, as he's just an induced hallucination. “It takes practice like anything else, but you end up with a couple pounds of rock flying as fast as a major league fastball. It's how a little shepherd boy took down a giant.”

You consider, “Wait, don't tell me…”

Your body guest sighs, “It took me a little while to figure out Goliath was a bad man, but by then he already knew how to be big and strong on his own. He needed to die, but…” the man in tweed closes his eyes and takes a slow breath, “...but he was still a young man that I trained for a few months. Whom I lived with day and night. Spoke with, taught, strengthened, invested into… and not only did I abandon him to die, I had to watch.”

You process that for a bit while you eat, “You were a Philistine?”

“No more so than I was a Russian, Englishman, Aussie, Loonie, Martian, Centauri, or any of the other nationalities who have hosted me over the years,” he shakes his head, “OK, technically I am an American as I was a resident at the time you all split off from the British Empire, but…” he shakes his head, “...good luck with the documentation on that. But no, I generally stay out of politics and warfare: I consider myself a citizen of the galaxy.”

“There’s some folks in the history department that would kill for an interview with you,” you chuckle, finishing up breakfast and taking the plate, silverware, and glass to the sink.

“Nah, they usually have better ethics than that,” the man in tweed rolls his eyes, “concern yourself with the folks in finance: I have some insanely good knowledge for investments.”

“Is that why the account total? Oh, and can I…” you begin as you wash the dishes, noting that skillet is already clean and on the drying rack.

“I'm not giving you a million dollars or whatever total you were going to ask,” the ring shakes his head, “I don't mind funding schooling, hero gear, and basic necessities, but I don't give anyone a free ride; leads to laziness. You're going to need to join the workforce at some point. I will train you, sure, but if you want a ‘sugar daddy,’ seek elsewhere.”

“Had to try,” you chuckle, but considering he's been parking everything on your debit card… well. You finish up the dishes, put them on the drying rack, and pause, stopping at the door, “You said you rode back?”

“Yes, picked up a good bike, rode it back. It's waiting outside, you're welcome to use it,” the man smiles.

You step outside, expecting a Harley or something, and you're sorely disappointed:

A green adult tricycle, with a matching helmet, sits waiting.

Sighing, you put the helmet on, and head back the couple miles to the school….